


I Breathed a Song Into the Air

by inkedinserendipity



Series: And Taking Names [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, Magic Revealed, Or in other words, and is nice not only when it's convenient to the plot, but are open to interpretation, he tells morgana and stops her descent to madness, merlin gets consistent characterization, then they team up and kick behind, written so that all relationships are platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-15 13:22:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7223977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkedinserendipity/pseuds/inkedinserendipity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since Uther ordered the charge on the Druid camp, forcing Morgana to return to Camelot and a life of suspicion and secrets, Merlin's been thinking. His magic should be used for good, right? How can he let Morgana suffer, thinking she's alone, when really, she's not? </p><p>Both Gaius and the dragon down the stairs tell him to say nothing. But he's Merlin, so of course, he's not going to listen. </p><p>Title inspired by Longfellow's "The Arrow and the Song". It's a nice short poem about friendship, 10/10 would recommend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, I should be working on Silhouettes of Gold. But then I had this idea for a Merlin fic - a whole set of them, actually - and I had to put it down. This could be anywhere from 5k words longer to 35k, depending on how many ideas I get after the main premise is established. 
> 
> I'm quite excited to get these written. Morgana is just such an amazing character, and, well, I'd love to see what happens if things had gone a bit differently. ;)

The gate creaks open with a shudderingly loud sound as Merlin swings the wrought-iron outward. Sighing, he makes a mental note to oil the hinges as soon as possible - he really can’t keep coming down here, making such a racket. Though, with his luck, eliminating one source of noise would upset some cosmic balance he has yet to learn about. Maybe, when he oils the hinges, the universe will decide he’s got to make hysterical amounts of noise some _other_ way and send him tripping down the stairs, hitting his head on each step before falling to his doom in the river snaking miles below the castle. That would just be typical Merlin fortune, honestly. 

Shaking his head at himself, Merlin flicks the torch in his hands idly as he descends the stairs, mind whirling. For no real reason, he finds himself counting the steps, taking them in sets of fours with a muted rhythm, far removed from his normal energetic demeanor. Instead of the rapid pace he usually sets, he walks with a dull, slow _one-two-three-four_ that echoes mournfully off the walls. Or maybe that’s just his overactive imagination.

The walls of the cave are damp and slick his jacket with clogged moisture as Merlin leans against them, sliding to a seat. He places the torch in one of its two holders, magicking it away with a distracted flick of his hands. He leans his head back, baring his throat to the chilly air, and stares at the ceiling with blank eyes. 

Air currents whip around him as the dragon arrives next to him. With a great flap of his wings that buffets Merlin’s hair from his face, the dragon lands on his typical outcropping of rock, the closest he can come to Merlin without choking himself on his chain. Sometimes, the primal part of Merlin calls to him, urging him to free the dragon from his chains, until the other part of him - the one that puts Arthur above all else - protests with both reason and emotion. And, as always, Arthur must come first. One day, when magic is free in the kingdom, he will release the dragon; but until then, in this cave the dragon must stay.

“What brings you here today, young warlock?” the Great Dragon rumbles, his tone a remarkably human combination of exasperation and irritation, like a father expected to set the broken leg of a child’s pet. 

“Hello to you too,” Merlin replies quietly, wishing he had a name with which to address the dragon. Even if their contact is limited to exchanges of advice and spells, he is curious. What could he call such a majestic (and ungodly irritating) creature? “I just wanted to think.” 

“I hear the library is a fine place to be pensive and moody,” the dragon replies dryly, shuffling its wings around its body. 

From Merlin’s seat on the damp, uncomfortable floor, he rolls his head along the wall to look at the dragon. With a hint of mirth, he replies, “But the floor creaks too much under the sheer weight of its avid youth.” 

The dragon huffs out an amused breath. “I am inclined to believe that I would sooner perish than see any library crumble under the feet of youngsters in pursuit of knowledge, addlebrained as you all are.” 

Merlin inclines his head in the smallest of nods, making brief eye contact with the dragon before closing his eyes and tilting his head back toward the ceiling. Some distance from his shoulder, he can sense the dragon radiating curiosity at him. To be fair, normally Merlin has a motive for visiting. He’s never quite found reason to pay a simple courtesy call before. 

No better time than the present, as Gaius would say. Or at least, he’d say something like that. Gaius is full of these adages and sayings, most of which he uses to motivate Merlin to do his chores in a timely manner, instead of delaying a scrub of the leech tank for two weeks. 

Merlin huffs a small sigh. He’s not here to think about Gaius. 

A couple of minutes trickle by, accumulating in drops of stale water at the back of Merlin’s head and rolling down the fringes of his hair to drip sluggishly onto his shoulders. The quiet in this cavern is pervasive, immense; everywhere Merlin looks, even when he reaches out with his magic, there is little of interest save the dragon watching him from behind slitted eyelids. Merlin’s pretty sure he’s pretending to sleep. 

Only this morning, he’d led Arthur and his men - however inadvertently - straight toward the Druid camp, after directing Morgana toward their care. And Arthur, in the typical Utherian fashion, strove to leave no survivors. In his head, Merlin can still hear the desperate wailing of orphans in the aftermath, the clinking of the charms set up above mounds of dirt to mark their final resting places. Whatever Gaius would say to console his apprentice, the deaths of the Druids rest solidly on Merlin’s conscience. 

Merlin shakes his head a second time, feeling a pinch of irritation at his own self-recrimination. He hadn’t come down here to ponder the destruction he wrought, either. Rather, wherever he looks from behind closed eyelids, he can only see Morgana’s face, aching and desperate to hear the word _magic_. To have someone else, _anyone_ else, acknowledge that she was suffering. To validate her concerns. To empathize with her. 

Merlin is intimately familiar with that sort of isolation. In his youth Merlin could never understand why the birds liked him better than the rest of his playmates, why he never got sick from the running water in the rivers, why the flowers might spring up under his palm while chatting with Will beneath the shade of an oak, winding their stems around his finger. Back in Ealdor, when all he had was his mother, then Will, he could feel the scorn of his peers wherever he traveled, could not help but notice the muttered tension from the adults. He’d grown up alone, his mother’s fear of discovery infecting his every waking hour, plagued with nightmares he could not fully understand. He’d had no one.

Actually, no, he couldn’t empathize. Not really. He’d had support - Hunith and eventually Will. Morgana, however, had no one. 

Sure, life for Merlin in Camelot was lonelier, without his mother and with his best friend dead. Sure, the stakes of hiding his magic had only grown tenfold, and of course protecting Arthur made it _that much_ harder to keep his gifts a secret. Sure, Morgana had to face none of that - no sleepless nights trying to divine a new spell to save Arthur from poisoning, no bargaining with dragons for ancient spells and mist-hidden islands. Sure, she just got nightmares. 

But Merlin had Gaius, and Merlin knew what he was. He knew he was a warlock, and could take solace in the fact that, at the end of the day, he could talk to Gaius as a confidante and advisor and maybe, if he were to listen to the feelings at the core of his heart, as a father. 

Morgana had none of his support. And considering everything - Uther’s ruthlessness and Arthur’s stubbornness, the glorification of the Purge and the executions every other week at dawn and cries of “sorcery!” and the guards and the books dedicated solely to the evils of magic - Merlin cannot help but conclude that, hard as it is to protect the most royal prat to ever grace Albion with his behind, it would be harder to live in Morgana’s position, under constant fear of detection with the threat coming from the king himself. Uther acts as a father toward Morgana, Merlin knows, and he tries to imagine a life where Gaius would kill him without hesitation if Merlin revealed his true nature. 

He can’t. His heart clenches, painful and leaden in his chest, at the mere thought. He can’t even bear the thought. 

“What troubles you, young warlock?” 

Merlin’s eyes flick open, almost beyond his rational control. “Morgana,” he replies simply, mind still alight. However he tries, he cannot banish the image of an imagined Gaius staring at him with hatred and fear. 

“The witch?” the dragon hisses, dropping the pretense of sleep, as a shiver of anger like wind whipping sand off the shoreline thrills through the dragon’s body, the emotion so ill-contained that Merlin can feel it, far from the dragon as he is. “Has she yet revealed her true nature?”

“I think I should tell her I have magic,” Merlin says pensively, choosing to ignore the dragon’s fiery words.

“What?”

“I think I should tell Morgana that I am a warlock,” Merlin repeats calmly. 

“The witch is to be your _doom_ , Merlin!” the dragon roars, and a spear of heated air blasts by Merlin’s face, ruffling his hair. “Imagine the destruction she could cause with this knowledge. You cannot tear the threads of destiny so lightly!” 

“Even so,” Merlin says, unmoved. “I can’t let someone - even someone who should be my enemy - suffer so greatly. Even _I_ can’t imagine what it’s like, living in fear as she does. Shouldn’t I try to help her? Isn’t that what magic is supposed to be for, to help people?” 

“Should you do this, you will provide her with a weapon more powerful than any other at her disposal,” the dragon growls, haunches high and wings alight, arched over his back. Merlin has no doubt that, were there no chain fastened around his neck, the dragon would crouch right in front of him, scalding his eyes with a furious breath to accompany each word he hisses. “She could turn you in, could attempt to kill you herself, could turn Arthur against you. Is this what you want?”

“No, but -”

“No. This is sheer foolishness, young warlock, however much your morals may tell you otherwise.” 

“Why?” he asks simply, finally turning to face the dragon. 

“Why is this foolishness?” the dragon asks him incredulously.

Merlin nods.

“Because this will only hasten your downfall!” the dragon shouts, finally turning his head upward to loose a small stream of flame. So great is the dragon’s agitation that, even from here, Merlin feels an ember loose from the fires and singe his hair. Merlin is suddenly grateful for the chilled moisture in the cavern. “Do you not want to live to realize your destiny? To help the Once and Future King?”

“Of course I want to help Arthur. But I can’t let that blind me to other people.” With every word he speaks, Merlin convinces himself a bit more, tastes a bit more of the truth. He has to do _something_ , though what that something is he’s not sure yet. He can’t let Morgana suffer in silence, watch her lose herself. “Arthur is so important to me, as a friend and as my destiny, make no mistake. But if my magic is to help people, then I should help more than just Arthur.” 

The dragon sobers, watching Merlin’s face, and whatever he sees there increases the intensity in his voice manifold. “The witch cannot be trusted. Merlin, if you have ever valued your destiny - no, the destiny of the Prince - if you have ever valued Arthur’s life, _do not do this_.” 

There’s something akin to fear in the dragon’s eyes. Merlin’s not sure if that fear is for his wellbeing, or for the dragon’s own sake. He’s inclined to believe the latter, and that inclination tempts him to disregard the dragon’s advice entirely. 

But that would be foolish, to discard such counsel. Instead, Merlin leans his head once more against the wall. “Tell me more about my destiny, then.” 

The dragon sits back, surprised. His wings lower slightly. “I cannot.” 

“Why not?”

“To have such foreknowledge is dangerous,” the dragon replies, then draws another breath, as if to say something more.

Merlin cracks open an eye, pulling himself around to study him. His facial expression is, yes, quite distinctly that of one warring with oneself over whether or not to continue speaking or shut up. Vaguely, Merlin wonders when he became adept at reading the facial expressions of a dragon. Maybe it’s some inborn gift, he thinks wryly. Given everything else that he is, he wouldn’t even be surprised. “Why not?” he prompts. 

“Because to do so would alter your course of thinking,” the dragon says slowly, tasting each word slowly as if searching for a better substitute even as he speaks. “You might attempt things that would otherwise seem folly.”

“For example, to refuse to help a friend,” Merlin points out evenly, shutting his eyes again. 

The dragon snorts in obvious exasperation, fueled by impatience and rage, plus something encroaching on fear. “That is different!”

“I do not see how.” 

The dragon doesn’t appear to have a response for that. “Merlin, _please_.”

Merlin does not respond. Instead, he tilts his head back again, letting his eyes fall shut, and continues to think.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gwen is made a concerned accomplice, and Merlin's hatred of laundry becomes known.

The next morning, he tracks down Gwen early. It’s not hard - she’s in the same spot practically every day before the rooster crows, heading up to Morgana’s chambers with a load of brightly colored dresses folded neatly in her arms. Merlin trots down the corridor, hair dishevelled from waking up speedily, intent on intercepting her before she disappears into her Lady’s chambers for most of the morning. After a good fifteen minutes of weaving in and out of other servants with a litany of muttered greetings and apologies trailing in his wake, he finally manages to catch up to her. 

“Gwen!” he shouts unabashedly, waving his arms around a particularly inconveniently-placed column to get her attention. “Gwen! Over here!” 

At the familiar voice, she turns her head, grinning ruefully at his undignified appearance. He has the sense to look at least a bit flushed - with his hair sticking up at all angles, a bit of dirt from his visit to the dragon trailing down his neck, hopping up and down in the castle before most of the noblemen were even awake. “Good morning,” he says sheepishly, watching her amused eyebrow approach him. 

“Good morning, Merlin,” she replies, hiding a laugh in her greeting. “How are you today?” 

“Pretty good,” he says, pushing thoughts of Morgana’s fear-filled eyes and projections of Gaius’s face filled with rage and scorn forcefully from his mind. “Yeah. Good. Uh, d’you need help with those?” he asks, waving an arm vaguely at her basket. 

Gwen looks at him askance, still biting down amusement. “Not really,” she replies frankly, but hands him a load anyway. “But thank you, Merlin.” 

They set off side-by-side down the corridors of the castle, ducking with smooth motions under servants hefting heaping plates of food for their Lords and sidestepping the Head of the Armory carting an armful of burnished plates of armor and sword sheaths so tall it towers over the bulbous crown of his head. Merlin and Gwen have to walk for about five minutes before passing the purple-curtained windows that marked the corridor leading to Morgana’s room.

As they pass beneath the lavender-tinged light of dawn filtering in, Gwen heaves a long-suffering sigh and pulls to a halt. Instantly, Merlin stops fidgeting, suddenly aware that he’d been tapping his fingers against the cloth loud enough to silence the roosters outside and deafen the birds in the sky. “Um...” he says uncomfortably. 

“Um what?” she replies, laughter flickering in her gaze. 

“You stopped,” he points out. 

“True,” she concedes with a gracious nod. “But you haven’t stopped your agitating since we started walking, Merlin.”

“So?”

“So,” she grins, with the air of an instructor teaching the alphabet to a particularly slow student. Merlin gets the distinct feeling he’s being made fun of. “Something’s bothering you. You offered to help me with the laundry.” 

“I just wanted to help.”

“You hate doing laundry,” Gwen reminds him easily. “Your stick arms are just too skinny to lug anything around for any extended period of time, Merlin, you’d do anything to get out of it.”

“Hey!” Merlin yelps, thankful for the relative desertion of this particular corridor, save the sunlight coming in through the windows, merrily glinting off the floor as if to poke fun at him, too. “I’m plenty strong!”

“Of course,” she nods placatingly. “Now, come on, what is it you’ve got on your mind?” 

Merlin fidgets for several more moments under Gwen’s perceptive stare, shifting his load from arm to arm. Finally, Gwen collects his load and stacks it back in her basket, waiting patiently for him to work up the courage to ask. “I need a meeting with Morgana,” he says in a rush, looking at his boots. He _knows_ this looks immodest, but really, he has to speak with her. Even if some harm comes to his reputation.

“Merlin?” Gwen asks, expression flashing from confusion to alarm. She sets the basket down on the windowsill with a solid _thunk_. “Is everything all right?”

Trust Gwen to sidestep the obvious romantic explanation and go straight for the truth at the heart of the matter. “It’s fine,” he lies hurriedly. “I just need to speak with her. Could I take over serving her dinner tonight? You’ll have to help Arthur, and I’m sorry about that, since he can be such an arse, but I wouldn’t ask you unless it was really urgent -”

“Merlin,” Gwen interrupts, stepping toward him. “I’ll do it gladly. And I know you won’t explain, so I won’t even ask, but I just need to know - is anyone in danger? Is someone threatening Morgana?”

“Not everything I’m involved in is dangerous,” Merlin protests weakly, trying to sidestep the question, but Gwen levels him with a thoroughly unimpressed glare until he relents. “It’s...complicated,” he hedges, before running a defeated hand through his hair, unable to meet her soft, concerned eyes. “She’s in danger, yes, but it’s not anything new. I mean, nothing that came up recently. She’s been in danger for a while.”

“Then why talk now?”

“I just thought...I should talk to her about it.” 

“What is it about?” 

“I can’t say, Gwen,” he says reluctantly. 

Gwen looks like she wants to say something more, but doesn’t. A smile appears on her face, washing away the fear that had marred it mere seconds before, and she gracefully collects Morgana’s laundry. “Then I am sure she is grateful to have a friend such as you,” Gwen replies, jerking her head toward the door, so that when she steps out of the frame of the window he moves with her. “I will let her know of the change of assignments. Is there anything else you’d like me to say?” 

“Uh,” Merlin replies, rubbing a hand over his face as he thinks. There’s nothing really he could preface this conversation with to make it any more believable. “No, I think I’ve got to say everything in person. Thanks though, Gwen.” 

“Not a problem,” she replies sincerely, and shoots him one last anxious smile before disappearing through the doors to Morgana’s chambers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the conversation.

Merlin’s penchant for fidgeting, unfortunately, does not disappear during the day. This could go so, so badly. Maybe he should’ve listened to the dragon. After all, Gaius had advised much the same thing, and Gaius hasn’t been wrong about much before. What if he’s making a terrible mistake? What if he’s misjudged Morgana, and she goes straight to her father? He would’ve ruined his destiny. He’d be forced to leave Gaius and his home - to leave Arthur - forever. 

No, he’s overreacting. Morgana wouldn’t do that. After all, she rode with him to Ealdor, fought for the Druid boy and for Gwen’s life even against her own father. If anyone would stand up to the King, make their own decisions over his clouded judgement, it would be Morgana. Merlin can’t help but trust her, not really - she just has this way of speaking so that every syllable reeks of the truth, even when he might want to hear nothing but platitudes. She wouldn’t turn him in, and he knows this logically.

But he can’t stop his worrying. Or his blasted fidgeting. Merlin doesn’t even mean to, but when he’s got something in his hands he’ll rap it against the other palm, and when he doesn’t he’ll wipe the back of his knuckles on his pants so - regardless of what he’s holding, he’s got some sort of nervous tick that he can’t seem to hide. 

It’s so obvious that even Arthur notices, which is sad, really. Merlin knows he’s being obvious but can’t stop. It’s like there’s this stormcloud hanging over him that he’s trying in vain to dissipate with his hands, but he just ends up batting ineffectively at the vapor. Arthur pulls him aside several times - during training, during lunch, just to tell him to shut up. Merlin’s selfishly pleased to see that in his eyes is that hidden brand of Arthur-emotion that, even though he insults Merlin with his words, speaks volumes toward his concern all the same. Arthur’s noticed something’s wrong, and that’s his way of showing it.

Emotionally stunted clotpole. 

However painfully the day passes, it does pass. As the hour hand creeps closer to seven, Merlin’s fidgeting gets so intense that Arthur kicks him out of the room entirely, waving away his protestations, claiming that Merlin’s fidgeting is getting so loud he can’t even hear himself think. To which Merlin replies that he wasn’t aware the prince had thoughts at all, so not being able to hear them must not be too much of a surprise, and that just gets him evicted with greater exasperation. 

Merlin retreats, laughing, feeling a tiny bit lighter. He holds onto that feeling, clutches it tight to his chest, and uses it to walk down the halls with his chin lifted.

It’s only when Gwen exits Morgana’s chambers at his knock that he remembers he didn’t tell Arthur she was coming. Oh well. It’s not exactly an unpleasant surprise. Gwen doesn’t say a word to him as she passes, balancing a silver plate on her right hand to be filled with food, just brushes her left on his shoulder reassuringly. 

Merlin takes a deep breath to steel himself and raises a fist to knock on the door. His fist hesitates. As if the dragon can sense his anxiety, a voice sounds, loud and clamoring, in his head. _Turn back now, young warlock!_

Merlin claps both hands to the side of his head, wincing involuntarily at the volume of the dragon’s call. In the static of his mind, he can nearly see the dragon’s expression, contorted and furious, and for a moment Merlin doubts.

What does the dragon know that he doesn’t, exactly? What if he really is only expediting Arthur’s downfall? What if he destroys his hope of a united Albion forever? Maybe he should go find someone who will tell him the prophecy. The Druids, perhaps, who seems well-versed in lore and legend. He could seek out a different encampment. Merlin withdraws his hand from the door shakily, the stress exploding inside his stomach, before resting his head gently on the door. 

No. He’s made up his mind. He cannot, in good conscience, let Morgana go on suffering alone, dragon’s warnings and foretold fate be damned. He takes a deep breath, lifts his chin, and raps his knuckles on the wood. “My Lady?” he asks through the door, surreptitiously eyeing the hallway around himself to make sure that no other unsuspecting servants or noblemen pass through at this highly inopportune time.

Within seconds, the door creaks open. “Merlin,” Morgana greets him, smiling warmly - albeit somewhat uncertainly - at him. “Please, come in.” 

“Thanks,” he says breathlessly, eager to dart inside the door. As he lifts the tray Gwen left, piled with food sitting on the mantelpiece above the fire, he consciously tries his best to imitate George’s flawless servitude. Though heaven help him for ever trying to emulate the man, especially given how much Arthur despises his proclivity for decorum over all else. He’s just turned back to the table when he notices that it’s set for two. 

Merlin curses to himself for not asking Gwen about that particular roadblock. Morgana might be dining with someone, maybe even Uther, and heaven only knows Merlin can’t have this particular conversation with the blasted King sitting in the room! Exasperation and disappointment tear at his stomach, and he’s ashamed to feel a bit of relief blossoming inside his forehead as well, knowing that he can put off telling his secret for just a little longer. “Will someone else be joining your, my Lady?” he asks with proper subservience, setting the tray on the table as he should before retreating to stand against the walls of the room. Whoever it is, they could come in at any moment.

Morgana approaches the table and takes her customary seat. “No need for such formal titles, Merlin,” she tells him lightly. “To you, my name is simply Morgana. And there will be no one else dining with me tonight, save yourself.”

“Myself?”

“Yourself, yes. Won’t you join me?” 

Morgana’s clearly enjoying the shock that flits across his face as he stumbles over his words. “Oh, no, that’s not - really, you don’t - uh, I can just get something from the kitchens, it’s not a problem.” 

“I can hardly believe that Arthur would allow you a moment’s respite to eat anyway,” Morgana chuckles, gesturing toward the seat. “The crops are coming in, his paperwork has nigh-on doubled, and by now you’ve got his signature perfected. He needs you to work so that he can slack.” Merlin doesn’t look convinced. “Please. Think of it as a gift, Merlin.”

Cautiously, Merlin abandons his post in the shadows clinging to the wall and slides the chair out with no small amount of trepidation. He eyes the plush cushions plumped for noble behinds as if they were a small army of porcupines ready to prick him. He lowers himself gingerly, quite clearly uneasy around the array of cutlery that rings his hands. He picks one up and stares at it - is this the soup, meat or vegetable fork? But there are six forks. Oh Gods, is he supposed to eat bread with a _fork_?

Morgana's laughing at him, he can just tell. “So, Merlin, what prompts this unlikely visit?”

“I wanted to talk to you about something.” His hands clasp urgently around the tines of his fork, hard enough to poke painfully into the pads of his fingers. He opens his mouth to say something else, but no words come out.

Morgana allows him several seconds to collect his thoughts. While he thinks, she delicately lifts bites of salad to her mouth, her calm a remarkable counterpoint to his anxiety. She has polished off half of her salad and breaks off a roll of bread, dipping it in oil, before she prompts, “Is this about the Druids?” 

Merlin’s fist clenches until the handle of the fork leaves lined, reddened indents in his palm. Morgana observes him calmly, easily peeling off small chunks of bread and popping them in her mouth. “Kind of.”

With deliberate motions, Morgana sets her bread back on her plate and stands. With an inscrutable expression on her face, she picks up her plate in one hand in chair in the other. Merlin watches her, baffled, as she walks around the table and sets both down at the side of the table tangent to Merlin’s seat, then sits, unruffled. She doesn’t sit, not yet, and walks back around to pick up a single knife, fork and spoon, before seating herself next to Merlin and continuing to eat as if nothing had occurred. 

“What are you doing?” Merlin asks, eyes flicking between Morgana and the mound of utensils she abandoned on the other side of the table. 

“Shifting seats,” she replies, then with a blink, her stoic facade fades to irritation as she lunges across the table to snatch at a napkin without standing up. “These tables have always seemed too long to be truly conducive to conversation.” 

“What - why?”

“This seems an important interaction,” she explains, grumbling quietly to herself and grasping at her wineglass, too, then giving the cup up for useless when it remains stubbornly out of the reach of her hands. Condemning her mouth to remain unwetted, she rights herself and looks instead to Merlin. “Far more important than using twenty different utensils for a simple meal, anyway.” She nods at the admittedly intimidating array of forks, knives and spoons she left behind. 

“Oh,” he says dumbly. In one series of movements, Morgana took all of the court etiquette he thought he knew about dining Ladies and threw it out the nearest window, shattered glass and all. 

“Oh, do stop making that face,” Morgana grimaces. “You’re looking at me as you would a phoenix or a tiger, some strange exotic creature.”

“It’s just that I’ve never seen a Lady do that before.”

“Of course not, it’s terribly undignified. But this is more important,” she says, nodding at him. Seeing his tension, she picks up the discarded bread and breaks off another piece, chewing fearlessly into the awkwardness surrounding Merlin like a shield. “Tell me what’s bothering you? The Druids?”

“It’s not really about the Druids. Well, I guess it is, but mostly peripherally.” 

“Merlin...” she says, her tone suddenly soft. Morgana tosses her bread to the other hand and uses her dominant hand - surprisingly tough and calloused, like Arthur’s, and right on cue Merlin notices a dagger with a worn handle and a target haphazardly strewn inside her closet, peeking out from behind closed doors - to cover Merlin’s, whose hands are still trembling around a fork. He doesn’t even know what this fork is supposed to be used for, he thinks nigh-hysterically, looking at his plate heaped with chicken and peas and bread and oil and fruit, anywhere but Morgana’s sympathetic face. “Please, Merlin. Do not blame yourself for their demise.”

“No, it’s not that,” he sighs, forcing himself to keep his hand where it is, and using the other to rub at his temples. “I mean, I can’t help - if I hadn’t come, then they wouldn’t have found you...”

“If you had not come,” Morgana tells him gently, lowering her head so that he is forced to meet her eyes, then dragging his gaze upward, “then innocent citizens of Camelot would have died. However conflicted I felt when you spoke to me, I would have lived with that guilt and shame for years. I am glad that you succeeded in delivering your warning.”

“No matter the cost?” Merlin blurts, feeling shame and guilt sting at his eyes. He didn’t come here to think about the Druids that died - the Druids he as much as killed - but here he is. But the second the words leave his mouth, he wants to take them back. He can’t put Morgana in that position, can’t force her to choose between peace with the Druids and fear in Camelot with lives of her people in the balance, that’s not fair. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t -”

“No, it’s all right,” she says, and though her expression constricts in sorrow her hands do not leave his. “I cannot deny that...that what occurred was horrible.” For a moment, she closes her eyes, and Merlin looks away to allow her privacy. “That their deaths weigh on me as few others do,” she confesses quietly. “But I cannot blame you for their deaths, nor can I blame myself. To do so would weaken their sacrifice. The only fault here lies in Uther.” 

“Ah,” says Merlin, for lack of anything else meaningful to say.

Slowly, the anger and grief clears from Morgana’s expression, and she catches his eyes once more. “But you have not visited to assign blame. What is it, Merlin?” 

Merlin’s throat constricts, choking him slightly. Suddenly, he can’t even swallow, much less breathe. He reclaims both of his hands and tries to take a long drink, forcing the water down his throat with jerky movements, looking anywhere but Morgana’s prying gaze. Where is his conviction from earlier? Why did he think this was a good idea? 

Thousands of fears and anxieties pound against his mind, shoving out the others for priority, and he sees himself, for one brief moment - his body engulfed in flames, screaming for Hunith, for Gaius, for Arthur, until his throat bubbles up along with the incinerating heat, ashes scattering in the sky. 

“Merlin?” Morgana asks. Merlin snaps from his reverie, blinking rapidly to clear the moisture that has accumulated suspiciously in them, and focuses instead on the concern written clearly on her face. “Are you well?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” he chokes out, trying another time to gulp down water. He succeeds in splashing less on his neckerchief, which he counts as a victory, however small. “Just nervous is all.” 

“If it is making you sick, you do not need to tell me right now -”

“No. No, if I don’t tell you now then I never will,” Merlin protests immediately, knowing his reasoning to be true. If he fled now, he would never again work up the courage to return. “I just...it’s something I’ve been keeping to myself for a long time now, and I’ve told very few people and I, er, don’t know how to find the right words,” he explains, trying for a smile. 

Morgana’s eyebrows furrow. “Then perhaps you could show me, instead of trying to explain. Is there some trinket that would aid your story?” 

“I can do that,” says Merlin, thinking. Morgana sits back, pleased. He looks around her room, trying to figure out what to do. Nothing with the candles, of course, that would be horrifying as well as insensitive. Nothing near the windows or door, in case someone walks in. Nothing to do with her clothes, nothing to do with her furniture, lest Gwen notices something askance. 

Merlin’s eyes light finally on the glass of water she’d been reaching for earlier. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, and the cup lifts and dances through the air toward Morgana. Morgana, facing him, does not notice it until she sees Merlin’s concentration focused entirely over her shoulder. With a curious glance toward him she turns, and comes face to face with the levitating goblet. 

She shrieks. 

The cup nearly smacks against the ground as every nerve in Merlin’s body seizes with panic. He quickly recollects himself as the goblet flies in midair, watching the wine poised to spill all over the floor, and stops it and places it hastily on the table by Morgana. With no small amount of fear, he half-stands against the back of his chair, trying to look as tiny and unintimidating as possible. 

For a couple of seconds, neither of them say anything. Morgana visibly forces herself to relax, staring silently at the cup. In her panic, she’d clapped both hands over her mouth, but she prises them away from her face now. “Was that you?” 

Merlin regards her, and with the feeling that he’s signing his own death warrant, says “Yes.” 

Morgana turns to him, face eerily blank. “You have magic, Merlin?” 

“I do,” he confesses, before he can succumb to second thoughts. Though how he would explain away _that_ particular feat of magic is beyond even in his capabilities for deception. “I - I’m sorry, Morgana, I didn’t know how to tell you,” he explains quickly, imploring her understanding with the rapidity of his words. “I knew you had magic but we didn’t want you to know because we were afraid of what Uther would do if he found out, and - and I haven’t told anyone, Morgana, not even Arthur, I just thought that you shouldn’t be alone, because I know what it’s like - well, to be alone, I don’t know what it’s like to live with Uther and I can’t imagine it was easy - I just thought the Druids would help, I didn’t know Arthur was going to come after them. I’m so sorry, Morgana. If it was hard for me, it must have been even harder for you.” Merlin looks down at his hands miserably, not even entirely sure what exactly he’d confessed during that tumult of words. He just needed for her to say something and stop looking at him with that strange expression on her face. 

Silence reigns, but Merlin doesn’t have anything left to say. He’s completely out of topics to ramble about, so instead, he sits and waits for her dagger to fall, for her to pass some sort of judgement. 

When she does react, it’s abrupt: one moment she’s staring at him, mouth stony, and the next her eyes are wide with a whole series of emotions, and she’s crying, burying her face in her hands and breathing in deep, shuddering gasps. As if stabbed, she doubles over, uncaring how her hair splays out on the table and douses itself with oil. Her fists shake from their clenched position balled against the thin fabric of her dress, tearing small scratches down the lace at her knees. 

For a couple of seconds Merlin hovers his hand awkwardly over her shoulder, very much out of his emotional depth. Then she curses, a vulgar word that’s much more suited for a tavern than inside the walls of a castle on the tongue of nobility. “S-sorry for this,” she says, waving a hand vaguely at herself, the other muffling her sobs. “I-I just...I h-had no idea...I-I was so a-alone, I can’t believe -” her voice breaks. 

“It’s okay, it’s perfectly understandable,” he says, gathering the courage to pat her back. 

She takes a deep, ragged, breath, then looks up. Her eyes are still watering but she can look at him solidly, at least, and look at him she does, as if truly seeing him for the first time. “It is good t-to know that someone else shares my plight.” She brushes away the last vestiges of her tears and rests her palm flat on the table, closing her eyes and regulating her breathing. “So. Magic. Well, Merlin, do you by any chance use it for Arthur’s laundry?” 

Merlin could feel his jaw nearly detaching, only vaguely aware of the buzzing prickling along his skin, a strange combination of giddiness and relief, rushing to his head. “You’re not going to turn me in?” 

Morgana levels a serious stare on him. “I will not tell Uther your secret,” she says solemnly. “You have guarded mine with your life, and I would repay you with no less.” 

The lightening feeling in his head only grows, and he can feel a huge smile splitting his face. “Thank you, Morgana,” he says, his voice barely brushing against a whisper. “Thank you so much. I was so worried, coming to Camelot.”

She frowns, catching a wayward question like a ruffling breeze. “Why _are_ you in Camelot, Merlin?”

“I was a strange child. Didn’t really fit in, growing up in Ealdor.”

“So you came to the most dangerous place for sorcerers instead. Traded harassment for certain death.” At least Morgana’s aptitude for sarcasm hasn’t failed her. 

“Yep. Sounded like a good life choice. Camelot’s the ideal vacation home, really - cabbageheads for princes and visiting sorceresses twice a full moon, wonderful views from the parapets and oh, how could I forget, a king that perpetually wants to kill me.”

Morgana regards him for a moment, and he her, until they both dissolve into hysterical giggles, a sudden release of the tension coiling identically in their stomachs. He bends over the table, his forehead hovering inches from the set of utensils that he had absolutely zero idea how to use, wheezing breathlessly against the table. In his head, he can feel praises to the Gods he’d never really believed in and known to exist at the same time humming through his brain. Next to him, Morgana does much the same, crying again, at least this time from laughter.

Then they suck in huge breaths, steadying themselves against the hands of their chairs with trembling arms. Slowly, their giggles peter off to a companionable quiet. The great coil of stress pushing against his stomach has vanished. Appetite returned, Merlin picks up his own roll and shoves it in his mouth with voracity. He hadn’t eaten since right after his meeting with Gwen early that morning, busy as he was assisting Arthur and the knights with training. Across from him, Morgana picks up her goblet with contemplative fingers. 

“So, who exactly is this ‘we’?” she asks after several moments of thought. Merlin looks up from the grapes he was plucking hastily off the vine, hurriedly chewing and swallowing. She must have mistaken his expression for alarm, because she continues, “If you wish to preserve their identity I will not hold it against you, but I admit I am curious as to the other magic-users who hide right under Uther’s nose.” 

“We?” 

“Earlier, you said that ‘we’ did not want me to know that I possess magic for fear of Uther’s brutality.” 

“Right, that,” Merlin says. “I was talking about Gaius.”

“Hmmm,” Morgana hums thoughtfully, studying the intricate carvings ringing the outside of the goblet. Concern carves a furrow between her brows. “I suppose that makes sense. But, if he knew about my magic, he must have known that the droughts would not work.” 

“We knew,” Merlin concedes. “But it was better to keep up the pretense and hope that it would help than stop and raise Uther’s suspicions.”

“There is reason in that,” she says, staring at her reflection in the goblet. “How I wish I did not have to hide,” she says quietly, musingly, as if speaking to herself. Then she shakes herself, a quick frisson of alertness that shoots down her spine, and her gaze flits from the goblet to Merlin’s face.“Could I...ask a couple of questions? About your magic?”

Merlin nods eagerly, happy to have someone to talk with. Morgana asks her first question eagerly. “What exactly can you do? I can See, it seems, but you do not seem to share the same gift.”

“Well, I can do basic, y’know, object manipulation. That’s what I’m best at so far,” he says impishly, “tripping bandits over branches and sending people backward, stuff like that.” 

“Bandits?”

“We’ve run into a couple, once upon a time. For some reason, all of them seem to want Arthur’s behind.”

“Can’t imagine why. Honestly, they can take him.”

“Maybe I’d be able to sleep in for once!”

Morgana shakes her head at his levity, grinning along with him. “And good riddance, too. So...hmmm. For how long have you practiced, Merlin?”

Merlin fidgets. She is not going to like this answer, especially considering Uther’s actions before his birth. “Uh...” he trails off, forcibly stopping himself from giving a the full answer. He has to think about this. She’s already tried to kill the King once. 

But then again, she deserves to know. Besides, just a little, Merlin wants someone else to know the truth of the atrocities of the Purge, the genocide that nearly took everything from his people. 

Morgana sets down the goblet to give him her undivided attention, not missing the way he starts tearing the grape stem methodically to pieces. “I was born with it.” 

Morgana looks astounded. “I thought that was impossible?”

“Guess not,” he shrugs. “It’s innate for me, like how it developed in you, except I was an infant when my magic first manifested. Ever since I was little, I was getting books off the shelf with magic, floating cookies through the air when I was hungry. Nearly scared my mother to death. We grew up in Cenred’s kingdom, sure, but people are about as fond of magic there as they are here.” 

“Then those children...” Morgana trails off. Merlin doesn’t need to be in her mind to know that behind her eyelids she’s hearing the screams of the children burned in the Purge. Her grasp tightens around the stem of her goblet, sending her nails tearing against the surface and chipping through the attentively-laid designs. 

“Yeah,” he says, for lack of anything better to say. 

“Uther is despicable,” she concludes, her calm tone at jarring odds with the knuckles standing out like white streaks against the rest of her hand. 

Merlin doesn’t have anything to say to that. 

With another three deep, controlled breaths, Morgana reins in her formidable temper. She tilts her head in a movement too rigid to be relaxed and places the goblet back on the table with a precise _click_. “Terrible as he is, he is of no matter,” she says tightly, her mouth thinning in displeasure and curling into an angry snarl in alternate seconds. Then she waves a hand in the air as if to flick the ever-permanent cloud of fear and distress with which both Merlin and Morgana are intimately familiar from their minds. With considerable effort, she relaxes her expression into something kinder, forcing her thoughts from her ruthless King. “You never did answer my question,” she continues, lightness returning to her eyes. “Do you do Arthur’s laundry with magic?” 

Merlin contemplates his answer before shrugging and, through a grin, says “Only on Tuesdays.” 

Morgana throws back her head and laughs again. “I can imagine that chores would become rather draining after all these years.”

“Especially mucking out the stables,” he agrees good-naturedly. “You wouldn’t believe what can be found in there!” 

“Wait,” Morgana says. Something clicks in her brain. “The stables - Merlin, how exactly was Sigan defeated?” 

Merlin blanches. He wasn’t proud of having to kill the servant, he really wasn’t. Couldn’t they pick a happier application of magic? Like when he saved Gaius, their first meeting.

His answer must have shown in his face, because she regards him with something approximating wariness. “What did you do?” 

“I, uh, used magic,” he hedges.

Morgana is decidedly unimpressed. “In _detail_ , Merlin.”

“I took out his spirit,” Merlin says ponderously, torn between fully explaining and the long-ingrained habit of evading answers at all costs. “He was possessing that manservant before me and tried to get to me - he knew I had magic, somehow - so I just kind of -” Merlin makes a vague shoving motion with his hands “ - shoved his soul back into the rock it came out of, then we sealed back up the cave.” 

Morgana stares at him for a long, long moment, plucking grapes of her own off her plate and chewing them contemplatively. She swallows once, then asks astutely, “Merlin, what else have you done?” 

He’s never told anyone save Gaius the full story. It would sound unbelievable, not to mention highly illegal. But he trusts Morgana, on some fundamental level, and she’s not regarding him with disgust or hatred or any of the other thousand emotions he feared would mar her face. 

So he tells her everything. From the very first meeting with the singing enchantress, the knight Valiant, Bayard’s poison and Arthur’s daring rescue, the Sidhe and Excalibur and the dragon (though he leaves out the dragon’s desperate warnings against confiding in Morgana), the unicorn and the Isle of the Blessed and Sigan’s curse. He doesn’t stop speaking throughout his entire tale, not once. With every word he says he feels an immeasurable weight lift off of his chest. Morgana is the perfect listener for this sort of story - her reactions are not platitudes, they are genuine emotions, every gasp and hiss of anger slots easily into his story. She can feel his terror of even the memory of nearly losing his mother, an empathetic fear reflected on her face, imitates his anger at Valiant’s trickery and Sigan’s plot. 

When he finally runs out of his words, when he runs his emotions dry, he takes a long sip of water, and is surprised to feel a deep calm settling into his core. It’s different, having Morgana as a confidante. Gaius’s words are invaluable as advice, but there’s something distinct, unique, about talking to someone his own age, someone struggling with the same situation with which he himself fights daily. 

“Arthur has no idea,” she observes wonderingly. “All of this, and the Crown Prince of Camelot is clueless.”

“Well, I got sort of good at hiding this stuff.” 

Morgana shakes her head. “You have done so much for our kingdom, and for that I will say what he never would - thank you, Merlin. For both of our sakes, for both mine and yours, I will fight to see the day where Camelot enjoys magic once more and you can earn the credit you deserve.” 

“Thank you, Morgana. Your words mean the world to me. But I must confess that truly, I just want to see Arthur safe, and...” he hesitates, but it’s true, this is what he wants. “I want to see magic flourish again. Just as you do.” 

“You do not seek recognition?”

“Eh, maybe later.” 

For a moment, he’s afraid that Morgana is going to propose something rash, like trying to kill the King (again), but she doesn’t, just looks at him with those open and trusting eyes. 

“Could I ask a favor?” she says after a long, drawn-out moment. Her eyes are narrowed, critical, like she’s turning an idea on her mental spit until it’s ready for presentation.

“Of course,” Merlin responds, startled. 

“Tell me. Whatever happens, tell me. I know that I am young in these arts, and untrained, but however I can help you to protect Camelot, I would do so gladly.”

“You want to involve yourself in protecting Arthur?”

Morgana rolls her eyes in evident exasperation, looking toward the ceiling as if a balm for patience could trickle down and splash into her cup. “Gods help me, but yes. If there are threats to the kingdom - my dear prince included - then I want to help, in whatever way that I can. I want to prove - to myself, to any who may later tell this story - that magic _can_ be good. That Uther was wrong.” 

“It’ll be dangerous, Morgana,” Merlin warns, but he already knows her answer before it comes. “There are so many things that could go badly. I don’t want...”

“To feel guilt over my entirely hypothetical death? Simple. Then do not. I assume these risks under my own will, and I care not for the danger. Besides, if you are truly so powerful as your achievements claim, then I will hardly be undertaking a great risk, will I? I rather think that journeying with you would be a safer outing than with any of the other Knights.”

Merlin fights down a grin. As much as he works wonderfully alone, he could really use Morgana’s assistance. But he has to make doubly sure before he can say yes. “You know this could mean your death, if luck decides to mistreat us.” 

“I know. I also do not care.” 

A relieved smile flushes across Merlin’s face, uncontainable. “Then yes! It would be tremendously helpful to see what is going to come. I cannot tell you how much I wish that Arthur was wise enough to heed your warnings. Although I unfortunately cannot change his pride -” both Merlin and Morgana snort ruefully with the same breath “- I would welcome your help.”

They pass the rest of dinner without mentioning magic again. Once Morgana loses her grip on the courtly decorum embedded in her skull, she’s actually quite fun to talk to, Merlin finds; she’s got an impish sense of humor and a razor-sharp wit that keeps him on his toes, gives him a verbal opponent of the caliber he’s never seen before. Certainly not in Arthur, who just brushes off his jibes with threats of the stocks. By the time Gwen knocks on the door to relieve Merlin from his supposed period of serving, both Morgana and Merlin have entirely lost track of time. Both look at each other in alarm, abruptly severing Morgana’s tale of a younger Arthur challenging her to a competition of jump-rope and sulking for four solid hours in Gaius’s chambers when she beat him by a hundred skips. 

Gwen’s knock sounds again, rousing panic in Merlin’s stomach. “My Lady?”

“Well, time for me to go,” Merlin says, rising hastily from his chair. He glances at the table - it’s no use trying to pretend he wasn’t eating, Gwen is already knocking a third time and Morgana’s chair is still askew at the side of the table with Morgana in it and Merlin’s plate is laden with food half-eaten, forgotten in the midst of their tales. It would be futile to try to clean before Gwen’s knocking brought the whole of the body of Knights running to investigate the disturbance. 

“Yes, time for you to make yourself scarce,” Morgana says, staring ruefully at the plates. “This will be rather difficult to explain.”

“I’ll let you cook something up,” Merlin snickers, very much not envious of her as he hefts the door open. “Hi, Gwen! Aaand bye, Gwen!” he sing-songs, sidling quickly past her and nearly sprinting down the hallways. 

Guinevere turns an inquiring eyebrow on her Lady, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. Morgana shrugs, not a hint of remorse in her expression.

Then Gwen notices the table and shakes her head. “I am not going to ask.”

“That would be for the best,” Morgana replies. “I’ll just clean this up, shall I?”

“Allow me to help,” Gwen offers, shaking her head. “How did the conversation go?”

Morgana stacks the plates neatly, movements fluid with practice, arranging silverware in Gwen’s preferred manner on the topmost surface. She scratches one nail idly along the bottom of the platter and smiles. “Excellently,” she replies truthfully. 

Her face seems to glow with a new sort of happiness that makes Gwen’s heart glad to see. “Should I ask what you discussed?” 

“I could not say,” Morgana tells her quietly. “But suffice to say that I am more than glad we had this conversation. We have struck up...an accord, of sorts. One that will benefit us both quite well.”

“I don’t suppose that I’ll get to know the nature of this accord?” Gwen prods wryly, taking the plates from Morgana and shuffling the leftover food to one side of the platter. 

Instead of a witty jab, as Gwen was expecting, Morgana instead looks thoughtful. The pensiveness in her words is more than enough to grab Gwen’s attention, and she ceases the movements of her hands for a few seconds to listen to Morgana speak. “In due time, I believe. But the majority of the conversation is Merlin’s to tell, and I will not dishonor him by sharing what I have learned.”

Gwen mulls over those words, eyebrows furrowed as she slowly arranges the silverware on the platter and picks it up with both hands, ready to leave. “I have no idea what to make of that,” she tells Morgana honestly. “But I trust in you both. Whatever transpired, I hope for the best of consequences.” 

Morgana watches her leave with a fledging grin on her face. Whether or not Gwen can hear her reply she does not know, but she speaks regardless. “As can I. Already, our futures seem brighter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And suffice to say, they begin Kicking Ass and Taking Names.   
> This is the end of the main part of the fic - any other updates will come as a second part of the Taking Names series. Hope you enjoyed!


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